Hospital Days
by aradioactivehamster
Summary: Oneshot, mid to post RENT. When AIDS begins to take its toll on everyone, the hospital receptionist gets to watch it all. Allcanon pairings, not revolving around it though. First story, rated for a bit of language.


**A/N:** Well, this is my first finished fic. After I my account came to life, it occurred to me that I had nothing that wouldn't cause mild death in the readers. So, I spent the day writing most of this, then neglected it for a week or so, then finally finished. As much as I lack self-esteem, my friends kept telling me that this was very good, and I couldn't bear not having any stories up, so here you go.

I am as well versed in the ways of hospitals as a home-schooled four-year-old. As in, I know nothing. This plot bunny just kept biting at my brain and man, it had sharp teeth. mutters Yes, Master Bunny. I'm almost done. I fervently apologize to everyone and anyone who has ever even stepped foot inside a hospital. Seriously.

**Disclaimer:** resists corny, "I don't own, I rent." ... Not mine. Except the grumpy receptionist, she's totally mine.

* * *

Hospital Days

Jan Pearson had parted with her emotions long ago.

One really needs to do that with her job. All day, as her 45-year-old ass melded with the chair at the front of the hospital, she would watch pale, shaking men and women sign themselves in to visit one loved one or another. Most looked upset enough to be sick themselves, and actually need a stay at the hospital. Once the pen finished scratching (this could take anywhere from ten seconds to minutes, depending on their state of being, and Jan would pass the time by counting this), Jan would mutter whichever room was needed and half-heartedly attempt a plastic smile. But most days, she was too absorbed in her boredom, or too busy trying to not leap from her hospital receptionist chair and dash out the front door. But she knew better. The constant smell of desperately strong cleaning products had disappeared long ago, and even the sporadic screams of less stable patients or sounds of a bed being rolled urgently to surgery had faded into the background, leaving Jan to simply sit in her assumed silence.

Eventually, everyone begins to look the same. Everyone assumed the same stance once they're presented with The Sign-In Sheet they knew was there all along. There's a moment of surprise (Jan's still not sure why) and they mutter some sort of "okay", then bend down to sign the sheet. Eyes flicker around for a moment, searching for The Pen. Once found, they jot down whatever information they had, ass sticking out, sometimes even waving. After finishing, they step back a moment, unsure if they should call attention to themselves. I give them the room number. They mumble unconsidered thanks and dash off. Everyone complies to this standard, unconsciously. It's what they do within the lines that makes Jan either remember them or not. Not that it mattered.

One morning, a group of six opened the front door. Bright sunlight spilled onto the dull gray carpet. They rushed through the door, speaking louder and more recklessly joyous than most. "Denial," she heard herself mumble to herself before hiding behind her newspaper, hoping against hope that they were waiting for someone rather than coming to visit. She hoped they didn't break a lamp.

But within seconds, all of them approached the counter, and a tall black man informed her, "We're here to see Angel... or, Angelo Dumott-Schunard. He should have been admitted last night." He was fiddling with a black beanie in his hands, turning it inside out, twisting it this way and that, stretching the fabric horribly, and using the voice she was used to from visitors, the too-polite, strained speech that screamed, "I don't want to be standing here, so please kindly speed this the fuck up."

She took the hint. "All of you?" Nods. "Sign in here," she said, lazily gesturing towards the obvious sign-in sheet. He slowly scrawled his name (he seemed to be working hard to focus on writing, was he high?) followed by a small Latino-looking woman with large eyes (tainted red from tears), a tall white man with long hair, a shorter man with very blonde eyebrows and a strange scarf and clunky camera. At this Jan looked up from the list of patients and told him he couldn't bring it with him. He seemed startled, but left the camera at the front desk. He seemed even smaller without it.

Finally, a tall white woman and black woman signed their names, and Jan mechanically informed them, "Dumott-Schunard, Room 525. Sixth floor, main hall, on the right." They nodded and gave various forms of unheartfelt thanks before shuffling to the elevator. Jan returned to her paper.

* * *

The same people began to visit the hospital almost religiously, in varying numbers and stages of abandon, though the first man (who was Tom Collins, as Jan began to pick up on who belonged to which name) visited most of all. Jan assumed at least some of them had jobs and thought nothing of it. They were pretty irritating, but this Dumott-Schunard person had AIDS and was fading fast. She wouldn't have to deal with their horsing around much longer. 

And Jan was right. As September faded into October and the weeks passed, though they visited more and more often, they began to act like every other hospital visitor; sober and poker-faced.

Jan continued to live behind her desk, brushing irritably at the orange, brown and red shit that sprinkled on her from autumn decorations above her desk. She was beginning to think fall would never end.

Finally, mere days before Halloween, only Tom showed up for his almost daily visit. After a few minutes, or hours, or however long it had been (time had a nasty habit of stretching relentlessly on while Jan was working), Tom stumbled into the lobby and someone on staff at the hospital practically shoved him out the front door. She heard a final sob of protest from beyond the door.

When Jan gave the man a funny look, he replied that Dumott-Schunard had died.

* * *

For obvious reasons, the old Room 525 group stopped coming to visit, and Jan was granted with a full two and a half years of piece. Various patients occupied the room, but for some reason a lot complained of a lingering smell of marijuana. Jan laughed to herself to hear this. "Big surprise," she thought sarcastically, "It's not as if that Collins guy didn't reek of it every day." 

As the thought flitted through her brain, the front door of the hospital swung forward, and in trooped Tom Collins, Roger Davis, Mark Cohen, Joanne Jefferson and Maureen Johnson. For a moment, Jan wondered if she were having some kind of memory-induced episode. But no, everything was the same, just the return of these people was odd.

Again, Tom was the first to speak. "Can we see Mimi Marquez?" Again, the soft, polite speech of a quietly impatient visitor.

"Yeah. You know the drill, sign in." As they began their small train of signatures, Jan flipped through the patient log. "Marquez is in room 600. Same floor as last time, just farther down." She blinked. Why did she remember the location of one patient from over two years ago? Strange.

But none of them noticed her confusion, and just nodded and headed for the elevator. Jan watched each of them as they left her sight, deciding to classify them in her own catalog of visitor types. Tom looked decidedly queasy, and his fingers were playing with themselves, looking like they itched for a joint. _Has faced reality, just wants it to be over_, Jan decided after a moment. Roger Davis fit the category of manically depressed lover, as tears made slow, red tracks down his blanched face. Mark Cohen didn't look much of anything, like he could be in line at the DMV instead of visiting a dying friend. But Jan knew better, and mentally filed him away as detached from emotion. Like she was. Maureen Johnson had a tight grip on Joanne Jefferson's hand, and her dramatic face was screwed up in an effort to not cry. Joanne looked very hopeless, but not free enough to break down. At least, not while Marquez was still alive. _They're already grieving_. That was good, considering Mimi had AIDS as well as Dumott-Schunard.

Suddenly curious, Jan turned to her neglected computer, her fingers flurried over the keyboard, and soon the medical histories of Collins and Davis filled the screen. They, too, were HIV+. Jan sighed and closed the windows. _I suppose I'll be seeing these people for a while now_...

* * *

Before long, Mimi died. There were another few months filled with everything from pasty businessmen sweating bullets over their wives' simple procedures to daughters muttering to themselves how it was all their fathers' fault he had cancer. A few weeks after Mimi's death, a man with the last name Coffin called about her status. "Sir, she died a while ago," Jan heard herself say. He had let out an "oh" in surprise, mumbled some sort of apology and swiftly hung up his phone. 

About three and a half months following Mimi's passing, Roger, Mark, Maureen and Joanne returned. This time, Mark approached the desk, and he looked sick, not quite numb anymore. He quietly requested Tom's room number as he focused on signing his name. Jan mutely grabbed her patient log and began flipping through it, not looking at the people before her. While she looked, Roger signed his name, staring blankly at it before passing the pen to Maureen. He looked very pale and broken, and Jan could almost hear the thought process in his head... _"How much longer will I be on this side of the sheet?"_ Maureen took it and signed, but it wasn't legible because she was shaking too violently. She tried again and finally handed Joanne the pen. She signed without a problem, but she was breathing hard through her nose and just looked like she wanted to get out of the hospital. Jan couldn't blame her.

She finally found the room number and cleared her throat before giving it to them. Mark tried to mumble a thanks, as always, and they walked to the elevator once again. Maureen was hugging Joanne's arm to her body, still shaking visibly, and just as the elevator doors closed Jan saw Roger grabbing for Mark's wrist.

No one was looking at Roger.

* * *

Collins held onto life longer than anyone could have dared hope, especially since not only was AIDS attacking him but he coughed constantly from lung issues, issues like cancer. His visitors began to come to the hospital separately, as if the glue of his friendship were drying up between them. Maureen and Joanne visited sporadically, but when they did they came for hours on end. Mark and Roger would show up at the hospital almost daily, and maybe stay for half an hour. Jan figured they probably just updated Tom on what happened each day. _Men_, Jan thought. _Their friend is dying, and they still can't spend an hour in his room_. At one point in time, a group of solemn twenty-somethings came to visit him. They said they were former students or something, and their visit was brief and single. Months, almost five, slipped past. 

And finally, in the dead of night, Tom Collins passed on in his sleep.

* * *

Almost a week passed at the hospital before Valentine's Day came around. Singles' Awareness Day, which Jan was an active celebrant of. Her empty house attested to it. Hospitals were surprisingly busy on the day of dear old Saint Valentine, and the suicide wards were invariably close to capacity. 

Jan was idly wondering if Hallmark took pleasure in the pain of others as Mark Cohen walked through the doors - behind her. How did he get into the hospital? Did he bring someone in through the emergency room? As she stared at him bewilderedly, the front door burst open. Jan turned to see Maureen run to Mark and pull him into a tight hug, sobbing in a manner Jan was sure they thought was silent. Joanne strode quickly passed them, jaw set, and quietly told Jan, "We're here to see Roger."

* * *

For the entirety of Roger's hospital days, Mark lived at the hospital, for all intents and purposes. Sure, Joanne and Maureen visited at least once a week it seemed, but all that Jan knew was that Mark rarely left. How he pulled that off, she had no idea. But she also really couldn't blame him. She didn't want to die alone, either. 

Finally, after what felt to be years but was really only short, short weeks, Roger succumbed to whichever run-of-the-mill virus had gripped his body and rampaged through it with the proud gusto of a marching band. When Mark left the hospital for the last time, Jan was seriously considering getting a suicide watch on him.

The last one had died, and Jan Pearson quietly put her emotions back into their drawer.

**End  
**

* * *

**A/N 2:** Yikes. I was never good at ending things. Well, even if you hated this with a fiery passion, PLEASE leave a review. At least that way, I'll know not to act on the other plot bunnies quietly nibbling away at my brain... Yeah. 


End file.
